


Faceoff

by beersforqueers



Series: Hockey AU [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Attempt at Humor, Bad Puns, Closet Sex, Fluff and Humor, Hockey, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, because why not, ok there's a little bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7204130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beersforqueers/pseuds/beersforqueers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sokka and Zuko are teammates in the NHL and are about to face Jet. Who plays for the Jets. And is famous for hooking penalties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faceoff

**Author's Note:**

> I gave up on being subtle about what team I have them playing for. I am such a chauvinistic Detroiter. 
> 
> If you feel like googling, I have them living in the Indian Village neighborhood, which is, like, the MOST beautiful place. I just drive through there and cry when I want to see how the other half lives. #kiddingbutnotreally

It’s right before optional morning skate that Zuko pulls Sokka aside, looking sort of nervous. He’d been quiet on the car ride to the arena, but that wasn’t unusual. It just gave Sokka more airspace to belt out “Firework” and break out his best dance moves at every stoplight.

That lady back at the corner of Beaubien and Jefferson had looked frankly traumatized when he mimed shooting whipped cream out of his nipples, but whatever, some people are just determined to be haters.

“Hey Sokka,” Zuko draws him over to the wall of the tunnel and pitches his voice low. “I gotta talk to you about something.”

“Shoot!” Sokka smiles reassuringly. “But not in front of the guys,” he adds, “I know they’re theoretically ok with the gay thing, but we wouldn’t want to—“

“I’m being serious, Sokka,” Zuko snaps, and the grin melts off his face.

“I’m being serious back,” he says, “What’s up?” he pushes the cage of his helmet up so that he can look Zuko full in the face. He’s spinning the shaft his stick nervously in his hands so that the blade thwacks against his shins at every pass.

“There was this guy on my old team,” Zuko says quickly, like he’s trying to work up the momentum to continue. “Who, well…” he cuts his eyes to the side, and his cheeks flush, “he hit on me. And I said no. And he didn’t take it well.”

Sokka can feel his entire face go dark and stormy (not like the drink—the drink is delicious and he wouldn’t want to associate any negative emotions with it). Anyone hurting his Zuko makes him feel prepared to kick a dude in the jugular skate-first.

“It’s fine!” Zuko notices the rapid change in his demeanor and hurries through the rest of his (obviously) poorly rehearsed speech. “But the point is that we’re playing him tonight, and if he says anything, or chirps me in the handshake line or whatever…just don’t _do_ anything, ok? I don’t want you getting suspended over me again.”

Sokka is half listening, half trying to sort through the Jets’ roster in his head to figure out who Zuko is talking about. He needs to know what he’s up against if shit gets nasty.

“Wait,” he says slowly. “It isn’t—no way.”

So maybe he has always been the first person (and the last, and usually the one most times in between) to make jokes about Jet Ericsson getting traded to the Jets. It’s low-hanging fruit, and Sokka always carries a basket.

This, however, is not funny. Jet is a bully and a goon.

“Promise you won’t do anything,” Zuko pleads. He reaches up and raps on the top of Sokka’s helmet. “Keep it all together up there for me.”

“I’m not _actually_ goalie-crazy,” Sokka whines.

“Says you,” Zuko rolls his eyes. “We’re good?”

“We’re more than good,” Sokka knocks his cage back down again so he can finish lumbering toward the ice. “We’re grrrrrreat!”

“Are you making a Frosted Flakes joke?” Zuko sounds resigned rather than surprised.

“Home team solidarity,” Sokka says happily.

“Are you mixing your sports metaphors again?” Haru asks, breezing past Sokka and onto the ice.

“You may be faster, young man!” Sokka yells after him. “But what I lack in agility I make up for in girth!”

Hearing Zuko groan behind him makes the middle finger he receives from Haru even better.

***

They’re warming up on the ice before the game when Zuko skates over to Sokka. Sokka is doing what he likes to refer to as the “downward facing goalie hump” to stretch out his hip flexors.

“That’s a good position for you,” he says, and Sokka sticks his tongue out at him from where he is circling his hips awkwardly. “You don’t even need me.”

“You suck,” Sokka grins.

“Well you swallow,” Zuko shoots back, and Sokka actually sits up and wolf whistles at him. That was a good one. He’s so proud.

“Spitters are quitters,” Sokka says cheerfully, and enjoys the choking sound Zuko makes in response.

“I came over here,” Zuko begins again with the air of someone mustering their dignity, “to let you know that Jet’s here and hasn’t come near me. Probably it’ll be fine.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Sokka stares down the closest opposing player and bares his teeth. The dude looks like he might shit himself. Mission of intimidation: Successful. “Now GTFO, I gotta get in my zone.”

“Did you just use a text abbreviation? What does that even mean?”

“It means No Sex For Zuko Tonight If He Doesn’t Let Me Warm Up,” Sokka says without missing a beat, and Zuko skates off, looking worried.

***

The game is dirty from the very start, but it isn’t until the end of the third that Zuko goes down.

They’re sitting pretty, 2-0, 6 minutes left, and Zuko scored one of those goals, a beautiful wrist shot that went in over Bergstrom’s head before he even knew it was coming.

So the fact that Zuko is streaking up the ice with the puck probably doesn’t feel too great for the Jets’ third line, who are being completely outplayed and know it.

But then Jet arrives.

Sokka is way down at the other end, so he can’t see super well, but even he can tell that Jet should be serving his time in the sin bin for a hooking penalty.

It doesn’t get called.

Jet, obviously delighted, recovers the puck and suddenly they’re down in Sokka’s end. There’s a battle in front of the net while he valiantly attempts to keep track of where the fuck the biscuit is, and then he’s being shoved backward into his own fucking net by the weight of an enormous hockey player.

He _hates_ when this happens.

It’s Jet, and so he punches him in the face for good measure. It probably looks like an accident.

Jet finally disentangles himself from Sokka, and, swearing madly, clambers to his feet.

“That fucker hit me!” he shouts at the closest ref, who looks completely uninterested.

Sokka holds up his hands in a “who me?” kind of way. Besides, you know, that one time, he’s not really known for being violent. Plus he’s a fucking goaltender—that’s not his job.

“I’m comin for you,” Jet hisses, and Sokka continues looking as innocent as possible. He’s trying not to feel discomfited by the intensity of the rage in Jet’s eyes.

It’s not him that Jet goes for after all, though.

It’s barely five seconds after play resumes that the whistle goes again, and sure enough, there’s Jet and Zuko, gloves on the ice, beating the shit out of one another. Zuko is winning.

Sokka wishes that getting a hard on in his goalie pants wasn’t so damn uncomfortable. His dick apparently lacks any kind of self-preservation instinct.

The referees are trying to pull them apart, but Holm and Vasilevski are on the ice, and that never means anything good. They come at the ruckus fists first, and soon Holm is down on the ice with a giant Russian on top of him.

Sokka sits down on his ass in the goal to wait it out.

By the next morning, there are approximately 10,000 gif sets online of Sokka sitting on the ice with his legs stretched out in front of him, twiddling his stick back and forth while all-out pandemonium reigns around him. They’re pretty hilarious.

***

Zuko does media after the game, thanks the fans for coming out, says how nice it was to bag the last goal of the night, hopes the rest of the season will go as well as it has been.

By the time he rolls back into the locker room, Sokka is all ready to go, but he’s willing to wait for Zuko to sort himself out.

Especially because—

“Are you wearing crocs?” he squints down at Zuko’s feet, praying it can’t be true. He could have sworn he watched Zuko throw them out about two weeks after they started dating, when he told him he couldn’t get fucked by a dude who considered them acceptable footwear.

Zuko blushes, “They’re comfy, ok?”

“No,” Sokka shakes his head. “I punched a dude in the face for you tonight, and this is how you repay me?”

Zuko looks surly, “I punched him just fine all by myself.”

“Well I got him ready for you,” Sokka says, and lets himself be whacked around the face by the trailing end of the hoodie slung over Zuko’s arm as he turns to get his shit together.

Out in the hallway, Sokka realizes they’re finally alone for the first time since that morning.

“So what happened that made you hit him?” Sokka finally asks.

“He called me a flaming faggot,” Zuko says casually.

“He _what?_ ” Sokka drops his bag in surprise.

“Yeah,” Zuko shrugs, and drops his on top of Sokka’s. “So I told him it sounded like he was projecting, and he dropped his gloves.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Sokka says, and hauls Zuko in by the front of his shirt to kiss him.

There’s a utility closet right next to them, and since any of their teammates could be along at any moment, it seems like now is the prudent time to _utilize_ it.

Sokka wrenches the door open with one hand and turns, shoving Zuko in bodily. He fetches up against the metal shelving inside but seems unconcerned at the roughness, already coming back at Sokka with grabby hands outstretched. Sokka catches him and their combined weight makes the door rattle dangerously when they hit it.

Zuko’s hands are in his hair, his teeth in his bottom lip, and Sokka knows exactly what he wants right now. He gets his hands into Zuko’s pants, shoving them down to mid-thigh, and tears Zuko’s mouth away, shoving at his left shoulder to turn him. Zuko goes, breathing hard, a wild look in his eye as he peers back over his shoulder at Sokka. Sokka pushes him again, and Zuko grabs hold of the shelf in front of him, bending so that his spine curves invitingly.

Sokka wonders why they don’t do this more often; Zuko looks fucking gorgeous with his ass in the air.

Sokka doesn’t think about it too long, though, just unzips his own pants and palms his cock, giving it a few strokes while Zuko whines. He has a bottle of lube in his coat pocket, and he fights with his clothes until he can find it, uncapping it to squeeze all over Zuko’s ass and his dick until it’s empty.

It might be overkill, but better safe than sorry.

Sokka shoves a finger in first, testing the waters, but Zuko opens up nice and easy around him, so slick and hot that he moans when the second knuckle goes in. Zuko pushes his hips back, chasing sensation, wanting more, and Sokka preps him perfunctorily, not wanting fingering to be the main event here. He’s usually perfectly happy with fingering—hell, he might even be called a fingering connoisseur—but now is not the time.

When he slides in Zuko arches his back, jaw clenched, obviously trying not to make too much noise. Sokka has no compunctions about such things, and groans his delight for the entire world to hear. Zuko is so fucking tight, takes it so well, wriggling his hips like he wants Sokka deeper. Balls deep is really only as much as Sokka can realistically be expected to accomplish.

He sets a punishing pace, wanting to make Zuko let go and _scream_ , twists his fingers into his hair and pounds into him.

“Sokka, _c’mon_ ,” Zuko whines, and Sokka gets a hand around him, on such a hair trigger than Zuko comes almost as soon as he touches him, Sokka trying his best to keep from getting cum all over the floor while he does. The problem is that Zuko clenches his hole tight around Sokka, and then Sokka is coming too, and he can’t hold anything back, hips pistoning forward, hard.

They’re both panting in the aftermath, Sokka’s forehead pressing between Zuko’s sweaty shoulder blades, Zuko sagging against the shelving.

He finally pulls out, incredibly tempted to do something really filthy, open Zuko back up with his fingers, eat him out while he’s all loose and high on his orgasm, slide right back in the second he’s recovered enough to go again. But oops. They’re still in a utility closet.

So instead he grabs a rag and cleans them both up, Zuko honest to god mewling when he swipes the cloth over his oversensitive dick. Sokka practically pulls his pants up for him, because Zuko has flopped over Sokka’s front and is nuzzling happily at his neck.

He’s so fucking cuddly after sex and Sokka loves it.

“Come on asshole, let’s get out of here,” he finally finishes putting them to rights and puts a hand on the doorknob.

“I should beat guys up more often,” Zuko kisses the pulse point under his ear. “If you’ll fuck me every time.”

“Um,” Sokka jiggles the handle a little, “hold that thought.”

“Sokka…?” Zuko tenses against him, and Sokka tries fruitlessly to turn the handle again. “Soooookka…?” he draws his name out in that way that means “run away now, you may die.”

Sokka laughs weakly.

“Wanna go another round?”

***

They’re found an hour and a half later by the janitor, who accepts the excuse that they were helplessly trapped while searching for a lucky penny that Sokka dropped. Sometimes being widely known as goalie-crazy is an asset.

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless self-promotion: [beersforqueers on tumblr](http://omgbeersforqueers.tumblr.com/)


End file.
